The Hunter's Keeper
by QuirkyQuark
Summary: Introducing Caroline, the ER nurse who patches up hunters in need. She and Dean have known each other for a long time. He's back again, and in bad shape. Maybe this time they can keep it simple... or maybe not!
(From the POV of Caroline)

 _You look terrible._

I don't say the words out loud, but he hears them anyways. He has a streak of… dirt? Mud? Up one side of his face, and a smear of blood running down the other. There is enough blood on his clothes to make me worried (really worried), though with him I'm never sure how much is his, and how much is from someone- or something- else. But his eyes are the worst. Usually there's a fire there… hell, the fire is usually brighter than ever after a fight, even if he does come out of it beat to shit. But today there is just pain, the dark kind that gets you in a chokehold and slowly, slowly pulls you under.

"Hi," he says, and smiles faintly. Even his smile is dark and hopeless.

"Hi," I murmur back, and hold the door open to let him in. He lifts his foot to step inside and almost wobbles, but catches himself just in time. I see him glance up at me from underneath his eyelashes, checking to see if I'd noticed. Of course I'd noticed. I'd patched him up often enough that nothing gets past me anymore. But he tries so hard to be the invincible, hell-forged warrior he's said to be, and so I pretend. When you have nothing left, pride holds on all the stronger. I can at least give him that.

He hesitates just inside the door, unsure of where to go. I'd learned a long time ago to keep only dark furniture, dark enough to hide the blood stains that are an almost daily occurrence in my life. Hunters. Do they even try to dodge the bullets, knives, or whatever makeshift weaponry that is pointed their way with startling regularity? Sometimes it seems like they don't care a bit, just stand there and take it if it helps them get the job done. As someone with a well-developed sense of self preservation, I can't fathom the recklessness they approach their jobs with, or the cavalier attitude they have towards injuries that would devastate most of my regular ER patients. But as someone with a deep personal understanding of the evil they fight, and a burning hatred for all things that go bump in the night, maybe it isn't that hard to see.

Anyways, my all-dark furniture is currently piled high with boxes, and what isn't covered with boxes is buried under stacks of books. The dining room isn't any better, and I refuse to allow filthy, bloody, possibly infected wounds in the same room I use to prepare food, so the kitchen is out. The guest room is under construction (the cause of the boxes and books strewn about), and the guest bath is too small for both of us to fit comfortably.

That leaves my bedroom. Not my first choice. I give him a long, measuring look. There was the head wound, for starters. Looks like it bled a lot, but then head wounds will do that. His pupils are even and appropriate for the dim light of late evening coming through the window and the shine of firelight that lights the room. Then there were the wounds on his torso- knife wounds mostly, based on the tears in his shirt. No fresh blood visible, so they've already closed up. Can't be too bad then. Broken ribs are likely, based on the shallow breaths and the way he's standing hunched to one side. He'd done some real damage to that left shoulder a few years back- hard to tell if he's reinjured it or if he has his arm clamped against his side because of the ribs. One long, deep slice running down the back of his forearm, half-wrapped in what looks like an old tee shirt. That one is gonna scar bad. He limped a bit on the way in, but nothing major- a knee, it looked like. All in all, not the worst I've seen him, but bad nonetheless. I sigh and half-heartedly wave my hand in the direction of the hall.

"Last door on the left. Go take a shower. I'll grab some supplies." And take a minute to compose myself, I add silently.

I watch him walk towards the bedroom, not quite as steady on his feet as he wants to seem. He'll be all right for the moment, which was good, because after what happened last time, I'm not at all sure I can handle helping him shower.

(From the POV of Dean)

 _You look beautiful._

No, that's wrong. It's such a common word, and she is anything but common. She is energy, intelligence, humor, and light. She is the air in my lungs and the blood in my veins.

I laugh silently at myself. That head wound must be worse than I thought; it's not like me to wax poetic. But she's here, and she's real, and I'm glad of it. She's also worried. If I look half as bad as I feel, she's right to worry. Fuck, I hurt. I give what I hope is a reassuring smile.

"Hi."

She looks at me skeptically for a minute, then lets me in. Maybe not as reassuring as I'd intended.

"Hi," she murmurs, her voice husky. God, I'd missed her voice. I lift his foot to step inside, and realize too late I'd chosen the wrong leg, leaving me standing on my wrenched knee. I nearly wobble, but straighten and step in steadily. I glance up, but she doesn't seem to notice. Or she's just being nice. Knowing her, it's probably the latter.

I look around. There are books everywhere, stacked in boxes, piled on tables, lined up on the fireplace mantle. There have to be hundreds of books, most of them old. Their presence doesn't surprise me at all, but the clutter does. She usually likes to keep things neat. I turn to look at her, only to find her studying me intensely. Unconsciously, I try to straighten up. Big mistake, I thought, hiding a wince. I'm pretty sure I have at least a few broken ribs. The pain spreads across my left side like hot coals, reaching further with every inhalation, fading slightly as I exhale. Most of the time it just blends together with the rest of the pain, but lord help me if I move wrong.

After a long pause, during which I'm pretty sure she sees not only my wounds but straight through to my soul, she waves me down the hall. Apparently she's decided I'm not going to die, at least not right away.

"Last door on the left. Go take a shower. I'll grab some supplies."

I head that direction, hoping I look steadier than I feel. At least this time I'm able to take a shower without her help. Last time- well, no point in dwelling on it. There would be no repeat.


End file.
